


Four times someone argued about Athelstan with Ragnar, one time Athelstan comforted him about it.

by Lesatha



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M, minor spoilers from the previews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesatha/pseuds/Lesatha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing else than what the title says, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four times someone argued about Athelstan with Ragnar, one time Athelstan comforted him about it.

The first time happens with Aslaug, as both of them lie in bed. Ragnar is on the verge of falling in a well-deserved sleep when the sound of her voice breaks the silence.

 

“Tell me, what is Athelstan to you?”

 

Now Ragnar is fully awake. That’s too vast a question for such a late hour.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Even in the weak light provided by the moon, Ragnar can see Aslaug frowning. Eluding her questions always worsens the situation, but well, Ragnar can’t help it.

 

“I mean I saw you today,” Aslaug replies, “with _him_. I saw you stroking his hand and whispering to him.”

 

Ragnar snickers, rolling on his back. He can’t think of a satisfying answer. That is, he has a satisfying answer, but not one likely to appease Aslaug.

 

“What does it matter to you? Athelstan is a friend. Besides, he isn’t a woman, it is not like I am going to marry him and make him sit in the Great Hall next to me.”

 

He closes his eyes, hoping the hint will be enough, but Aslaug shifts and when Ragnar cracks one eye open, she is leaning on her elbows above him, lips pressed into a thin line. Oh, shit.

 

“It is funny of you to play that woman card,” she says with too much calm. “Because sometimes I wonder, who is your wife? Me or Athelstan?”

 

Aslaug’s jealousy never surprised Ragnar when it was about a servant girl or Lagertha. Tonight however… he didn’t see it coming.

 

“Be reasonable,” he huffs. “You’re the mother of my children. You rule with me in the Great Hall. What other proof do you need?”

 

Real pain flashes on Aslaug’s features, quickly replaced by anger.

 

“I will tell you what I need. I need you, holding my hand when Ivar is in so much pain he can’t stop crying. I need you whispering soothing words in my ear at night. Telling me to sit by the fire when the winter is at his worst, because you wouldn’t want me to fall ill.”

 

Ragnar opens his mouth but no answer comes out.

 

“As I said,” Aslaug adds. “One can wonder.”

 

She lies back under the furs, turning away from Ragnar. A long time ago, he would have tried to calm her with a stroke on her arm and a silly joke, but it never worked that well back then, so today… he would rather not think about the outcome.

 

“By the way,” Aslaug says, “whether you realise it or not, Athelstan is the one truly sitting by your side in the Great Hall.”

 

***

 

The second time happens in Mercia with Bjorn. However, it is Ragnar who starts the argument. They have been fighting all day and almost lost the battle. It was a blood bath –Ragnar dreads the moment they will have to count their dead. For now, only one thing clouds his mind and he can barely contain his fury when he spots Bjorn sitting by Thorunn’s side among the wounded warriors. The girl looks more dead than alive, yet Ragnar doesn’t care.

 

He grips Bjorn’s arm, dragging him away from the other Northmen. The boy doesn’t put up any fight, only freeing his arm when they are far enough.

 

“What did I tell you when we left?” Ragnar hisses. “She wasn’t ready for battle! She is a danger more than an asset!”

 

“Thorunn could have died,” Bjorn retorts, “I had to help her!”

 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Ragnar exclaims, and part of him registers it is the first time he yells at his son. “She would have died, and you almost died too when you went to her rescue!”

 

“Didn’t you ever do the same for someone you love? Floki told me you saved Athelstan’s life when you first raided Wessex. He wasn't any better than Thorunn when you took him to battle.”

 

Ragnar’s rage deflates at the memory and Bjorn shoots him a winning look.

 

“Of course Floki would tell you that,” Ragnar replies coldly. “Did he also mention that Athelstan was surrounded by three Saxons when that happened? Or that he saved my own life fives minutes later?”

 

“See, all of us had to help a friend at least once. That’s what happened with Thorunn.”

 

“No. Thorunn is reckless and inexperienced, and we can’t afford that on a battlefield. As you said, we all rescued a friend once. War is already hard enough with seasoned warriors –I don’t want her within our ranks again.”

 

If she survives her wounds, however Ragnar doesn’t say that. Fear of losing a loved one is agonizing –hell, Ragnar knows it– and he won’t make it worse for Bjorn. Yet this conversion isn’t completely over.

 

“And never use Athelstan again to prove a point against me.”

 

***

 

Third time happens the same day. As if Ragnar hadn’t had enough, Floki comes to him with a grim look, his gait sharper than usual.

 

“Many of us died today,” the shipbuilder declares, sitting on the ground in front of Ragnar.

 

Ragnar waits for several seconds, expecting a long speech on why it was such a bad idea to fight for Kwenthrith, but nothing comes.

 

“I know,” he sighs.

 

“All of this because of your Christian,” Floki hisses.

 

Ragnar closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. May Odin give him the strength…

 

“We are all going to die because he bewitched you with his sweet tongue!”

 

“How many times do I have to explain it to you, Floki? This is part of a much bigger picture,” and here Ragnar tears a fistful of grass and soil off the ground. “Athelstan isn’t responsible for it.”

 

Floki swats Ragnar’s hand away, faster than a snake.

 

“Of course he is! Everything you do, you do it for _him_ , Ragnar. You would get your friends killed for this… this Christian who’s been a slave most of his life!”

 

“Athelstan never was a slave to me,” Ragnar retorts, struggling to keep his nerves under control. Having a fight with Floki is much more dangerous than with Bjorn.

 

“Perhaps that’s the problem. Listen, no one cares that you fuck him, but why do you have to listen to him? He is nothing more than a Saxon, a man who worships a false god.”

 

It saddens Ragnar more than anything else that one of his closest friends, usually so perceptive, won’t try to understand Athelstan. Then realisation strikes him.

 

“You can’t understand what Athelstan is,” Ragnar whispers, gaze lost ahead.

 

Athelstan is too complex, even for a trickster. Soft spoken and quiet, yet able to endure the worst pain. Unwilling to kill, yet able to slit a man’s throat to end his suffering. Raised in one faith and somehow managing to accept another one. How can Floki be oblivious to such beauty?

 

“I understand he will be the death of us,” Floki spits, a dangerous glint in his eyes, one that Ragnar doesn’t like at all.

 

***

 

The fourth time may be the worst. They are back in Kattegat, after finally winning Mercia for Kwenthrith. The Great Hall is cheerful when Ragnar sneaks in, leaning against the wall in a dark corner. He is busy glancing around when the hall quiets all at once.

 

Ragnar spots Rollo, standing tall between two tables. Everyone is staring at his brother, and at the small man facing him. Ragnar’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes Athelstan. What could possibly prompt him to put himself in front of Rollo like this?

 

“I have nothing to say to you, _priest_ ,” Rollo replies to whatever Athelstan said, his voice ringing clear through the hall. “You’re not one of us. Remember how quickly you ran back to the Saxons in Wessex?”

 

Ragnar pushes himself off the wall, stopping when he hears Athelstan’s voice.

 

“You think I ran back to them? You weren’t there, you don’t know what happened.”

 

Athelstan extends his arms, exposing his palms to Rollo. Ragnar knows how hard it must be for him to do so.

 

“They caught me,” Athelstan says. “Despite what you believe, I wasn’t Ecbert’s guest.”

 

Rollo laughs, grabbing Athelstan’s hand and turning it around as if he were assessing a piece of meat. Then he presses his fingers down on Athelstan’s scar and Ragnar feels the urge to rip his arm off. Even in pain –because Ragnar know it hurts him– Athelstan doesn’t flinch, doesn't try to free his hand, and that is the only reason Ragnar doesn’t stride in.

 

“You are not one of us,” Rollo repeats, squeezing his palm again, and this time a shudder courses through Athelstan's shoulders. “Your loyalty doesn’t lie with us.”

 

“Then why did I stop that soldier from killing you when you were lying on the battlefield?” Athelstan replies with a glare.

 

Rollo remains speechless, and he releases Athelstan’s hand after a few seconds, as if its touch burned him. He shrugs and pushes past him, heading for the exit. Making sure no one notices him, Ragnar follows his brother out of the hall. There are some things he can't allow.

 

“Brother,” he calls once outside.

 

Rollo stops and Ragnar shoves him against the nearest wall as soon as he catches up with him. Rollo even has the indecency to look taken aback.

 

“You will never do that again,” Ragnar growls. “Never touch him again like you did tonight, or you will regret it.”

 

“Are you serious, little brother? Are you really going to take the priest’s side?”

 

“Without a single hesitation.”

 

“I am your brother! How can you choose him over me?”

 

“ _Athelstan_ never betrayed me.”

 

Even when he would have had reasons to do so.

 

Ragnar doesn’t need to say anything else. Bringing up Rollo’s betrayal was a low blow, but an effective one. Besides, Ragnar can’t bring himself to feel guilty about it –Rollo didn’t feel guilty about threatening Athelstan, after all.

 

***

 

Athelstan isn’t in the Great Hall when Ragnar comes back. It is getting late, Ragnar should just go back to his and Aslaug’s room. He should, yet he wants to make sure Athelstan is fine.

 

Ragnar finds him in his little room, kneeling with his back turned on the entrance. Athelstan hasn’t heard him, only stops whispering his prayers when Ragnar kneels behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. Ragnar wished to comfort him, but as he presses his chin on Athelstan’s shoulder, he isn’t sure which one of them needs a hug.

 

Athelstan relaxes in his embrace, resting his head back against Ragnar’s. That may be what Ragnar enjoys the most, feeling Athelstan’s tension disappear when he is with Ragnar. It fills him with a strange mix of pride and happiness.

 

“If he weren’t my brother, I would have had his hand chopped off,” Ragnar mutters.

 

“You know it is not worth it,” Athelstan says softly.

 

“Hmm. It is just… they are exhausting. All of them.”

 

Athelstan turns a little, half sitting on Ragnar’s lap now, studying him with a worried frown. He cradles Ragnar's face between his hands, glancing fondly from his eyes to his lips. Then he takes off his cross and presses it in Ragnar's hand before making himself comfortable against the Northman’s chest with a content sigh.

 

“Keep it,” Athelstan says, threading their fingers together around the cross.

 

Ragnar blinks, eyes glued to the silvery pendant.

 

“I can’t,” he replies. “It means too much to you.”

 

Athelstan shakes his head, running a finger along the armring Ragnar gave him so long ago.

 

“You mean more to me than this cross, Ragnar Lothbrok. I believe…” Athelstan’s breath catches in his throat. “When the Saxons caught me, my armring was my only comfort. It was a little piece of you, with me. If my cross can help you in such a way, I want you to keep it.”

 

“Thank you,” Ragnar breathes in his ear.

 

He can’t find any other words right now, so he curls around Athelstan, tightening his fingers around the cross. The others can say whatever they want, they will never take Athelstan away from him. Or they will die trying.


End file.
